Poltergeist of Justice
by pharmacistwhodraws
Summary: After his death, Claude Frollo is offered a chance to redeem his immortal soul. Under the supervision of his probation angel, he will return to Earth as a ghost with duties he must perform. But he quickly learns that the afterlife has its embarrassing drawbacks...
1. Chapter 1

The last thing that Claude saw was the determination in the face of de Vries, and then the entire world went black.

Then everything went white.

Then he was floating somewhere near the ceiling. Looking down, he could see de Vries bending over his lifeless body. His wife's frightened voice, muffled through the heavy door, had caught the doctor's attention. "Leave me alone so I can work!" de Vries shouted in the general direction of the door.

With a splintering crash, the door caved in, admitting Es and Quasi. The boy sized up the situation immediately, grabbing the guilty doctor and dragging him out of the cathedral. Struggling did de Vries no good. _So much for his final taunt that he would get away with my murder._

But Es threw herself at the dead man and refused to budge, even when Quasi returned and tried to coax her away. Her anguished sobs shredded any satisfaction Claude might have gleaned from the realization that his death had been avenged.

Attempting to reach down to comfort the girl only demonstrated to Claude that he no longer had arms. After recovering from his initial shock, he realized resignedly that this was his fate now; he was a spirit, why did he expect to have functioning arms or legs? His conscious self no longer resided in the human corpse it used to command.

And then, he felt himself being drawn up toward a blinding light in the corner of the ceiling. Unwilling to leave his wife, his first reaction was to kick and struggle—only to be met with the embarrassing reminder that he no longer had a body.

Claude immediately took a disliking to his new state of being. Nothing could be more unpleasant to this controlling man than to realize that he was completely helpless, being dragged around against his will. But true to his usual nature, Claude promptly began to carefully analyze his situation. If outside forces could move him, surely there must be a way of him moving himself. But since he had nothing now but his thoughts, how was he to go about moving? Maybe he needed to concentrate on where he wanted to be. Concentrating was something that Claude was good at; he'd learned the art of meditation early in his life from the monk who tutored him as a boy.

Claude was suddenly shaken from his thoughts when the world again turned to white. He must have been engulfed by that bright light he had seen earlier. But either the light had dimmed somewhat, or his vision had adjusted to the brightness, for a small figure came into focus. It looked like a little boy, with curly blonde hair, wearing a white toga.

"It's you!" the boy shouted with excitement. "I knew you'd get here someday."

Claude hadn't heard that voice since childhood. _Jehan?_

Then, Claude felt himself flipped upside down and dropped on what would have been his back. If he had a back. Life as a spirit was such an annoyance.

Jehan's face became so close as to nearly obscure his field of vision. "That was for framing me for the sugar cookie incident," the boy said.

_The WHAT?_ Claude filed through his memories.

"You didn't get punished _that_ harshly for my bad behavior." And Claude realized for the first time that he'd spoken, without a mouth. Somehow, he was broadcasting his thoughts aloud. An interesting development, and something he definitely needed to learn how to control. Before someone said "Esmeralda Troullifeau" and he started broadcasting some _very_ cringe-inducing thoughts for the entire spirit world to hear.

"Hey, look what we found!" It was the voice of Phoebus this time. Jehan had moved aside to allow Claude to see the new arrival. Phoebus wore the same white toga.

Claude attempted to address him. "This is awkward and I feel that I'm expected to apologize for stabbing you, even though I'm not really sorry because you deserved it."

….Claude would have smacked himself in the face for that one, if he'd had a hand and a face. His new spiritual voice was much, much too honest for his liking. Perhaps it came from the fact that he now spoke with his thoughts.

Jehan turned to Phoebus. "See, aren't they funny after they first die and they realize that they can't tell lies anymore? Because we hear each other's thoughts now."

"Oh! I just realized something!" Phoebus exclaimed. "Now I can get answers to something I've been wondering about since the minute I died! Because I can't figure out why Esmeralda turned me down for that impossible old git."

"Stop referring to me in such an unflattering manner," Claude said. "Oh, wait, I get it! You are jealous of me!" _At least I was able to morph my thoughts into something slightly less embarrassing this time._

"Soooooooooooooo," Phoebus drawled with an air of triumph. "I thought Esmeralda hated you more than she hates being told what to do. How on earth did you get her into your bed the first time?"

What could he respond with that would allow him to maintain some pretense of dignity? "We didn't even make it to my bed the first time. The bed was just too far away. But the floor was already there." Oh, crap, that was bad. Claude rifled desperately through his memories, trying to recall something that he could say truthfully without making himself look like a dirty old man. "Well, she hit me in the jaw. Really hard. I kept a straight face, but I spent half of the next morning nursing my jaw with a cold washcloth when nobody was looking."

What an epic failure.

"Interesting," Phoebus commented. "So, now you have made me curious. Did she hit you before, during, or after the fact?"

"STOP ASKING ME THESE AWKWARD QUESTIONS!" Claude protested more loudly than he intended to. Ugh, now he sounded like a whiney brat.

"Actually, I do have to stop," Phoebus admitted regretfully. "Because unfortunately you have a more important appointment and I'm not allowed to make you late."

"I do not like the sound of 'important appointment'," Claude thought out loud.

"Well, you're not getting out of it," Phoebus grinned. "Because you are about to stand before God to determine the fate of your immortal soul."


	2. Chapter 2

_There are many rooms in my Father's house. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? -John 14:2, NLT_

Claude found himself moving again. As before, he had no control over this. Being a ghost was incredibly inconvenient. It was of small comfort to him to know that Phoebus was subject to the same unglamorous fate.

Which gave him an idea. "Phoebus, how does this 'appointment' work where the fate of your soul is decided?"

"Darn, I really wish I could lie right now," Phoebus replied. "Well, first you're going to talk to St. Michael and he's going to ask you…"

There was a blinding flash of light and a sudden jolt, like Claude had just been pulled through a wall. He realized that Phoebus wasn't there anymore; the blonde ghost must be on the other side of that wall now. _Grr. I was so close to learning some very valuable information._ Reflexively, he swore aloud—and immediately kicked himself (figuratively, of course). "That was an accident!" he shouted, for the benefit of anyone who might have been listening. "I'm still learning how to control my speech!"

"So I see." Claude heard the voice before he saw the speaker's form materialize. The figure shone so intensely that no human eye could have looked upon it without disintegrating under the sheer force.

"You…you are St. Michael?" Claude asked nervously. He should probably be kneeling right now. If ghosts were capable of kneeling. He tried to stoop forward, only to feel himself flip over and his vision completely obscured by the floor of clouds he had been standing on (or was it floating above?) seconds earlier. "I hope I'm kneeling right now. I'm trying!" his brain blurted out too anxiously for his liking.

He didn't really think he was kneeling. Flat on the floor, facedown, seemed to be a closer approximation of his posture. He could only hope that St. Michael gave bonus points for effort.

"I am St. Michael," the voice responded loudly enough to make the clouds vibrate. When the echo died down, Claude could hear the frantic scratching of a quill on parchment.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" the archangel demanded.

Claude couldn't remember when he had last been so terrified. His next words would determine whether or not his soul survived—and ghosts didn't speak very eloquently. The disadvantages of being dead!

At least ghosts didn't wet themselves…

"I made some mistakes and I'm sorry," he said, sounding much too panicked. There was no point in trying to deny it.

_Scritch, scratch, scratch, scratch, _went the quill on the parchment.

Claude filed desperately through his brain. "I…um…I bought an indulgence? …yeah."

For the first time, the quill went still so that the archangel could prompt Claude further. "Did you genuinely believe that would pardon your sins?"

Yikes. Was the correct answer "yes" or "no"? "I don't know," Claude found himself saying. "That priest who was selling them, I wanted him to excommunicate someone who was in a position of authority. To prove a point. Politics. You know how that works. It was a mutual favor."

…that definitely wasn't the correct answer. St. Michael made no comment, the quill continuing to grate harshly against the scroll.

Claude thought frantically. "Earlier in my career, I gave a huge sum of money to the church once. To fund some much-needed repairs to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The archdeacon was so happy that he gave me a plaque on the floor of the cathedral with my name on it."

"And?" St. Michael prompted.

"And I felt really good about myself, when all of the city started coming to see the repairs. But then I realized that half of them were just there to spit on my name plaque." Claude didn't even try to stem the story that spilled forth; resisting was useless. "So I ordered guards to stand by my plaque to keep people from spitting on it." Scratch, scratch, scratch went the quill. "All of my publicity stunts worked much better with the aristocracy than with the laypeople."

Scritch, scratch.

"I saved Quasimodo's life!" Scritch, scratch. "Primarily because I got stiff-armed into it." Scribble, scribble, scratch. "But he didn't suffer neglect at my hands, because I hired some random peasant woman to tend to him for me." Scribble. "No, really, he wasn't even weaned yet when I got stuck with him. Of course I had to hire help! Men can't breastfeed!"

Stricth, scratch. Scribble scribble.

Claude forced himself to look upon the angel's countenance despite the blinding glare. But St. Michael's face was expressionless. Claude could not tell if his testimony was having any effect.

Maybe he was doing this all wrong. Esmeralda had pointed out something to him, when they were tied down on the cart being dragged to their pyre.

_ It's not because of what you did or didn't do that you get to go to Heaven. It's because of what Jesus did that you get to go to Heaven._

"I messed up." His voice sank. "I don't deserve salvation." Even though he didn't have a throat anymore, he felt himself choking up. "The only thing I can truly say in my defense is that, in the end, I sacrificed my career to save Esmeralda's life—King Louis would have assuredly fired me for marrying an immigrant to give her amnesty—but I didn't even live long enough to see that through! Those documents never got sealed and she's still a deportee who illegally returned to France and she's going to be killed anyway!"

Claude's voice broke; the air was silent. Even the quill scratching had ceased.

After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, the angel spoke. "Are you telling me that you have nothing to say to prove your worthiness?"

"You are correct there." For the first time, Claude was glad he didn't have lips; he would not have had the strength to have moved them.

"Actually, _you_ are correct there." St. Michael suddenly spoke. "I'll put this as plainly as I possibly can: there has been no place in Heaven reserved for you, because nobody ever expected you to make it."

"Saint Michael, sir?"

The voice had popped up from somewhere to the left of the angel. Claude focused on the place from which it had come, to see if he could identify the speaker.

"Sir, I'd like to intercede on the defendant's behalf."

"Phoebus, how did you get here?!" The shocked words sprung unbidden from Claude's mind.

"Please, sir, be merciful. Claude had a change of heart right before he died, and he didn't get a chance to even _try_ to make up for all of the wrong he did. Sir. Please take that into account, sir."

"Claude was given sixty-three years to make up for all of the wrong he did." St. Michael's voice was as heavy and emotionless as ever. "It is not my fault that he waited until the last minute."

"Well, it isn't my fault, either," Phoebus replied. "It's all _his_ fault. But my probation angel caught me misbehaving and now I'm really gonna get it so I need to do something really, really amazing to get back on my angel's good side. Something like helping Claude get out of this mess even though I really, really hate him."

"This does not seem very generous of you," St. Michael commented.

"Sorry," Phoebus mumbled in embarrassment. "I'm not yet used to this whole business of being a ghost and having to blurt out the brutal truth all of the time."

Has his situation not been so dire, Claude would have been amused to watch Phoebus sharing his struggles.

St. Michael spoke again, his voice even more forceful now. "Regardless of this fake selflessness that has been displayed on your behalf, the fact remains that there is no place in Heaven waiting for you."

"I know. I don't deserve one." The air went deathly quiet. "But I beg you, please give me a second chance to repair the damage I have done. Let me be a homeless man who willingly sleeps out in the wind and rain, for he knows it to be the wind and rain from the hand of God!"

Again the air went silent. St. Michael pressed his hands together in a steeple, paused for a beat, and then spoke. "Thus says the Lord God: Live outside in the wind and rain. Both of you are sentenced to walk the Earth together to learn the lessons you have both turned deaf ears towards during your lifetime."

Claude sank through the clouds in sheer relief. Following after him, floating down to earth, he could hear Phoebus mumble: "Walk the Earth _together_? I think my plan worked a little TOO well."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: I started writing this sequel as more of an experiment because I was curious what Claude Frollo would look like as a ghost (and because I thought it would definitely serve him right to be a peasant ghost for a while). I'm not completely sure what I'm doing and I'm making this up as I go. I don't even know where I'm going to go with this story, but if anyone is still interested and still reading this, feel free to leave comments or constructive criticism and let me know if things aren't making sense. **

**In real life, I don't believe in ghosts. I'm a recent convert to Christianity (got saved 11-2-18 at 4:15 pm, following a stint in a psychiatric hospital that resulted from a suicide attempt that frankly should have succeeded…story is much too long to tell it all here!). But I still love writing FICTION hahaha. I don't know how ghosts would work even if I did believe in them, so I am making this up as I go. Please let me know if anything I've written is contradicting itself, or needs clarification. I'm always looking to improve :) **

"Where am I?" Claude heard himself speaking. "I do not like this business of being moved around against my will." Wherever he was, it was very dark.

"In your own dungeons!" Phoebus' voice.

"Ugh, I thought I'd gotten rid of you."

"No, we're stuck with each other. It's part of that deal that I made with my probation angel." Phoebus grumbled. "And I should have predicted that we'd end up HERE, of all places. Yuck!"

"How did you know?" Claude asked. "Look, if I'm stuck as a ghost, I need to figure this out, and you've got to help me."

"No, I don't want to help you."

"Too bad, because I'm going to keep asking you questions, and you aren't allowed to lie. Now, how did you know that we would end up here?"

"Aaaaaargh." Long, frustrated pause. "So, it's like this. You're disembodied now. You're just a thought, got it? Lots and lots of people throughout the years have imagined you down here rotting in your own dungeon…"

"And since their thoughts put me here…" It made him wonder what all other unsavory endings that people had imagined for him. "Will I next find myself strung up from a noose?"

"Likely. I doubt that you'll have very many pleasant places to haunt," Phoebus commented. "I, on the other hand, haunt every bar in France. And I'm usually reenacting some idiotic drunk stunt."

"Because that's how people remember you," Claude finished the thought. "Well, I suppose that I should be happy that I will not spend my afterlife falling off of a stool at a bar. That must be quite embarrassing for you."

"I get used to it. Well, sort-of used to it. It's still embarrassing," Phoebus admitted. "Like the time I got so drunk that I passed out and some lowlifes stole everything that I had. My pack, my armor, my boots…"

"Your underwear?" Claude interrupted.

"Uh…..no, they left that. Actually, they left it on my head." His voice trailed off, the awkwardness evident. "The worst part was that I had forgotten all about that incident, until after I died, and I found myself pulled to that bar. One of those losers was telling his loser buddies about robbing me, and how I was just laying there in the floor, completely passed out…"

"With your underwear on your head," Claude added.

"UGH. I really hate you," Phoebus grumbled.

"I would pick a fight with you, if I didn't have better things to do. You are making me think, Phoebus. If I can haunt places because _other_ people have memories of me there…"

Claude found himself moving again. As much as he disliked being pulled around, he supposed that he should be grateful for the fact that he was being removed from the dungeon.

He was watching two people—one leading the donkey upon which the other one was riding—walk through what appeared to be the remains of a makeshift camp. Wood and cloth lay scattered about, blackened from flame, some of them still smoldering. The smell of burnt wood hung heavy in the air, forever branded into memory.

The person on the ground turned to the one on the donkey, and asked "Do you remember this place?"

"No," said the person on the donkey. Claude recognized the voice immediately.

"Es? It's me, your husband. I'm back." Even as a ghost, emotions were choking his voice. "I love—I love you."

"Am I supposed to remember this place?" Her words were addressing the physical person beside her, not the phantom floating in the background.

"ESMERALDA! Please!" the ghost wailed, even making the mistake of attempting to wave his nonexistent arms. It was of no use; she obviously could not see or hear him.

"You were just sixteen months old at that time, but I had still hoped that you would remember," Clopin confessed. "You were so terrified. Our home burned to the ground here, remember?"

"No, I don't."

"I do." Clopin swallowed. "I was seven. Your precious _minister_ was relatively new to his job, but even at my young age I could see that he was much, much worse than his predecessor had been. The way my parents spoke about him, and about the good old days when they could run free and do whatever they wanted."

E's expression hardened. "If you brought me here to complain about my husband, you are wasting your time. There is no use beating a dead horse—or a dead man, for that matter."

"Just hear me out!" Clopin shouted. Ignoring his sister's dull glare, he continued. "Your husband was making another 'flush', as he called them. Everyone was screaming and running, our whole area of the slum section of Paris was on fire. Our parents hid me and told me not to stir, nor make a sound…"

Claude realized that he was here as a figment of Clopin's memory. In this memory, flames were so large that they obscured the sky. Claude heard his own voice, ten times louder than usual, shouting orders to his men. He realized that he was experiencing this through the eyes of a terrified seven-year-old.

It was then that 7-year-old Clopin saw something that nearly made his heart stop beating: his struggling baby sister, with a soldier dragging her roughly across the dirt. Fear and anger kicked in; Clopin grabbed a burning stick from the wreckage and charged at the soldier, stabbing him in the back of the knee between his armor plating. The soldier screamed and dropped the little girl. Clopin grabbed his sister, terror lending strength to his arms as he lifted her and whisked her away. The two of them cowered under a pile of smoldering wreckage, Clopin keeping both hands firmly clamped over his sister's mouth so that she could not scream and betray their hiding place.

The minister's horrifying voice thundered forth again. "You let one get away?"

"It was just a little kid," the unfortunate soldier protested. "Couldn't have been more than three years old."

"Find it and bring it back," Claude heard himself snarling. "And maybe I will mercifully overlook your blunder."

The terrified soldier disappeared into the burning wreckage; the minister and the rest of the crew eventually rode off without him. A long line of prisoners, their hands all chained together, trudged along behind the soldiers.

Ghost Frollo would have been shaking in his boots, if he had boots. He hadn't been prepared for how goddamn _horrifying_ he would have been to a seven-year-old. "This must be what haunting feels like," he said to no one in particular.

The flames were gone; the soldiers were gone; Clopin's reverie was over.

"That soldier never showed back up," Clopin explained. "Either he ran away, or he perished in the flames. I didn't care to go see what happened to him, and I don't think Frollo did either."

"Why would I care about a useless minion who was bested by a 7-year-old?" the ghost observed aloud, though neither human heard him.

"I don't remember anything," Es deadpanned. "Too long ago. I'm sorry."

"Well, I remember!" Clopin shouted. "And I risked my life to rescue you from that fiend, you understand? Who knows what he would have done with you?"

"I would have dropped her off at an orphanage for the nuns to raise, of course," the ghost objected. "What did you think I was going to do with her? She was obviously much too young for forced labor. Like I did with those other immigrants I arrested."

"Clopin, you've got to understand!" Esmeralda wailed. "He changed! And he really loved me!"

"Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight," Clopin growled. "More like he got distracted from knocking us down because he was too busy getting you knocked _up_."

Es gasped. Clopin ignored the interruption. "Yes, I know. Quasimodo told me. Before long, everyone will know. And what will you do then?"

Esmeralda slumped on the horse, tears trickling down her face. "Please just take me home," she whimpered. "I'm so exhausted. I just want to sleep."


	4. Chapter 4

Gudule Troulliefou awoke that morning and began the same ritual she had practiced for the past 18 years. Groggily picking a few stray stalks of straw from her stringy gray hair, she stumbled out of the female prisoners' sleeping quarters behind the building to urinate. It was hardly a proper latrine, but it offered a semblance of privacy.

Hoping that she was not already too late, she hurried to the prisoners' mess hall. She had learned the hard way that prisoners who didn't make it to the table in time didn't eat. Minister Frollo only allowed them a few minutes to eat; apparently he would prefer the guards' time to be spent watching the prisoners working.

Gudule was hurriedly shoving her piece of bread into her mouth as a guard shooed her out the door. Head down, she shuffled into the moving crowd of prisoners as they headed out to the field for the day's labors.

Weeds. Today, they would be pulling weeds out of fields. Mutely glancing around, she could see both white and brown faces among her fellow prisoners, but by the end of the day everyone would be the same color: dirt color.

But all faces blurred together as the years went by. Minister Frollo did not discriminate; anyone he could legally sentence to "community service" ended up in the labor camps. The lucky ones served sentences with end dates, but many of them had no idea when (or if) the would be able to leave at all.

It could be worse, Gudule reflected, her joints creaking as she bent down to tug at a stubborn weed. There had been a drought a few years back, and all of the prisoners had been hauling water long distances in the heat. Crops all over France were failing, with the exception of the fields that the Minister of Justice kept thoroughly watered with slave labor.

When winter came that year, everyone but the Minister of Justice ran out of food. Because Frollo now controlled the market, he could charge whatever he wanted. After people ran out of money and the winter dragged on, people took out loans against their belongings—most of which were ultimately defaulted upon, leaving Frollo with even more houses and land to collect.

Gudule never ceased to be amazed at how many people Frollo could defraud without breaking a single rule (and therefore free from legal liability for any of his actions). She could only hope that his own outrageous behavior would catch up with him in the end.

But through all of her trials, one thought never faded from her mind. What had ultimately become of her two children, that disappeared on the day of the camp raid? She was almost certain that they had gotten away—she had hidden them well—but she had never heard news of them since. They would be adults now, with lives of their own. Her son would do well, he was a natural leader who looked out for others. But her poor daughter had been so very young when she disappeared. Gudule wanted nothing more than to see her children again. The thought gave her the strength to persevere through each grueling workday, the will to live when she just wanted to curl up and die.

*0*0*0*0*0*0*0*

Clopin Troulliefou brought his sister another blanket to place between herself and the cold, hard ground. She was completely exhausted and needed to rest. Disappointed though he was that she had not remembered the camp raid, she was still his baby sister and still his responsibility to protect.

She was his only remaining relative, after the family had been ripped apart. The last promise he had made to his mother was that he would protect his baby sister no matter what. Neither Clopin nor his mother would have ever dreamed that "no matter what" would include sleeping with the Minister of Justice…but a promise was a promise.

"I'm doing this for you, Mom," he mumbled under his breath as he carried more pillows into his sister's wagon.

When he said the word "Mom" he suddenly remembered that, with Frollo's death, all of his slave laborers would be free to return home; the newly-unemployed guards would have no reason to force them to continue working. Most likely his mother had ended up in a labor camp; he allowed himself to entertain the hope that he could find her among the freed prisoners.

But this hope brought with it the scary reality that his mother was going to ask about her grandchild's father. He couldn't be so cruel as to break her heart with the truth. What was he going to tell her?


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: Thanks to whomever left those guest reviews. I truly appreciate all feedback! Keep being awesome, you inspire me to keep writing 3**

Esmeralda shivered as she burrowed down into her nest of blankets and pillows. She wished for some warmth, some comfort, but even her goat was absent. She had left Djali with Quasimodo—the poor boy needed more companionship—but now she was the lonely one.

"Are you okay?" Clopin asked as he stood in the opening of the tent flap.

"No," Es grumbled, attempting to find comfort in cuddling with a pillow. It wasn't helpful. Her stomach growled, but she felt no hunger.

"You haven't eaten since early this morning," Clopin observed with concern.

"I'm not hungry," she mumbled.

"That's not a good sign. Your baby has to have nourishment." Stepping out of the tent, he shouted "I'll get you something" over his shoulder.

Exhaling slowly, the girl patted her swelling midsection. "Are you hungry?" she whispered softly. "Surely you can't need very much food. You're so tiny!" Methodically, she palpated her midriff, searching for anything hard or solid. Annoyed by the intrusion, the baby squirmed, poking a hand or foot into Esmerelda's empty stomach.

The rustling of fabric prompted Esmeralda to look up, noticing her brother standing in the tent flap. "Here, eat this," he said, walking to her and putting something into her hand.

Beef jerky.

Mechanically, she brought the meat to her mouth. It tasted like sawdust on her tongue. Biting down on the meat accomplished nothing, save for an aching pain in the base of her jaw.

"Ow," she whimpered. Chewing the leathery jerky was an impossible task, her energy was so low. Attempting to swallow only resulted in choking. She gagged, spitting the slimy meat into her palm.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, a tear trickling down her cheek. "I can't…I'm sorry."

Clopin shoved the meat in his own mouth, not even bothering to wipe away his sister's saliva. "Mmf umph gurg," he said with his mouth full. A bulge traveled down his neck when he swallowed too much at once. "Nothing wrong with the jerky. It tastes just fine."

"I couldn't taste it," the girl whispered. "I can't taste; I can't smell."

Hands gently gripped either side of her face, tilting her upwards to face her brother. "Esmeralda?" he prodded gently. "You're depressed, aren't you. I'm worried about you."

"I'm tired," she moaned softly. "I need to sleep."

*0*0*0*0*0*0*

Claude noticed the scenery scrolling past him as he felt himself being moved, but in the dark he could not clearly see any of it. He found himself placed down in a dusty, dirty, impoverished array of tents and wagons. No doubt it was a gypsy camp. He wondered what was in store for himself next. Trampling by livestock? Being torn to pieces by dogs? He did not particularly look forward to learning the unglamorous fates that these people had imagined for him.

Drifting inside of one of the tents, he attempted to make out his surroundings. In the dark, he soon discovered a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets. Turning his focus to the person wrapped up in this cocoon, he studied the tiny form until he could see her chest rise and fall in rhythm.

Esmeralda's tent—it certainly could have been much worse. The full moon shone through a tear in the roof of her tent, bathing her face in a gentle glow. He fixed his longing gaze on her perfect lips, relaxed and slightly parted. His vision caressed her forehead, her nose, her cheekbones, her delicate eyelashes. A tendril of hair slipped across her face, twisting into a soft curl.

"Esmeralda," he moaned. "You're beautiful. You were always beautiful. I miss you. I love you. I want to be alive again. I just want to be with you."

Then she stirred and opened her eyes.

"_Claude_?" she whispered.

"You can see me?" he gasped.

"Claude!" She tackled him in her eagerness, knocking him to the floor. Her hands flew to his face; he winced when she grabbed his hair. "Ow, stop pulling!"

Suddenly, he froze in surprise. "Wait…I have hair? That hurts when it gets pulled?"

Esmeralda giggled. "Of course you have hair, silly!" As if to prove her point, she dragged her fingers across his scalp, pulling his hair into spiky silver tufts.

Claude felt himself blushing at his mistake. "When you're dead, you don't have a body anymore," he mumbled awkwardly.

"Then how come I can feel you?" she asked, caressing his face with her soft fingers. He shivered at her touch, thrilled that he could feel her fingers against his skin.

"I…I don't know," he mumbled awkwardly. Being dead was so inconvenient, and the strangest things were perpetually catching him off guard.

Her soft giggling interrupted his thoughts. "You're cute when you're confused." She yanked him in close before pressing her lips to his nose…then his eyebrows…before dropping to his closed eyelids. He laid back in her arms; she brought his head to rest on her shoulder.

"Why did you stop?" he murmured.

"Stop what?" she asked.

"Kissing me."

"I didn't know you liked it so well," she giggled, pressing her lips to his widow's peak.

He was still amazed that he appeared to have a body again. Wasn't he just a thought now?

But if he was a thought, then he could be a dream, and if he was a dream….

"You're a vivid dreamer, aren't you?" Claude asked. "You can feel things touching you in your dreams…that must be why you can feel me like I'm still alive."

"I never want to wake up," she whispered, squeezing him close.

True to his nature, Claude was already analyzing the situation and wondering if Es ever had wet dreams. Being a ghost might not be so bad.

…he mentally slapped himself and refocused his mind, afraid he would accidentally blurt out something severely embarrassing. Even with this new development, he wasn't sure he could trust his thoughts NOT to broadcast themselves out loud.

Fortunately, Esmerelda interrupted his thoughts. "Are you real?" she whispered.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean…are you…are you just a dream, or am I really communicating with your immortal soul?" Esmeralda tried to explain.

"I'm real." And suddenly he had an idea. "I'll prove to you that I'm real. Did you know that I have a name plaque in Notre Dame?"

"No!"

"Once you step into the knave, you take a right, and it's under the third stained glass window…" Her eyes grew wide as she listened, nodding her head.

"Tomorrow morning, when you wake up, go to Notre Dame. You will find the name plaque. You didn't know about it before I told you; you just said so yourself. So I can't be a figment of your imagination. This will prove to you that I am real."

"I'll do that," she whispered, her arms encircling him. "But not just yet. Let me hold you a little longer…"


	6. Chapter 6

*****Thanks so much to SB 23 for reviewing everything! And to everyone else who has left a review :hug: You guys motivate me to keep writing. **

**I didn't mean for this update to take so long. I've been in and out of the hospital with my asthma and been prescribed several steroids. Any pharmacist (or nurse, or doctor) can tell you that those are used as immunosuppressants, which worries me slightly with the recent COVID-19 outbreak. I've been busy trying to get a doctor's excuse for work so that I can stay home and heal. Amidst all of this, I've finally figured out what I needed to do with this story. Hopefully the next chapters will be up in quick succession, we'll see****

Clopin Troulliefou was worried about his sister.

He didn't _want_ to be worried about her; he preferred it when he could be angry with her. She did not deserve his concern, not after her ultimate betrayal of her people. In fact, it could be argues that it was his _duty_ to cast her out. But she was still his baby sister, and seeing how weak and worn and depressed she had become had promptly swept his anger out the door.

Crying and curling up in a ball, wanting to sleep all the time, not feeling hungry despite her condition—she wasn't ok. She wasn't herself.

He attempted to push his thoughts away by focusing on the task at hand. Kicking his heels into the sides of his "borrowed" horse, he strained his neck to see where he was going. Unlike Es, Clopin was not sleepy at all, his thoughts kept him awake.

He was going to the labor camps to find his mother.

The first fingers of daylight were softly creeping over the horizon when the horse stopped in front of the stone compound. Clopin dismounted and stepped forward to lay a hand on the wall. Moisture seeped through his glove, bringing with it the lifeless chill of the ominous stones.

With a shudder, he yanked his hand back to his side, shaking the sodden glove from his hand. The fabric was contaminated now, stained by the ubiquituous despair seeping from this horrible place. Bile rose in his throat at the thought that his mother had been kept here for 20 years.

No guards bothered Clopin as he walked around the compound in search of an entrance. They must have gotten word that their employer was dead, and had left their posts. Clopin didn't blame them.

He found the door, which immediately divided into the men's and women's sleeping quarters. Straw crunched under his boot as he walked. It took him a few seconds for him to realize that this meant the straw was _dry._

Dry, clean, and surprisingly fresh. He brought a few stalks to his nose and sniffed—no odor of mold. The minister had clearly taken pains to ensure that the sleeping quarters were sanitary. Clopin was baffled at first, refusing to believe that the Minister of Justice could have possibly felt compassion for another human being. After a few moments, he decided that Frollo was only trying to prevent disease outbreaks that could have wiped out his workforce.

Clopin stepped over the bodies of the sleeping women, examining their faces as best as he could in the weak light. A few of them began to stir. "Who are you?" one of them mumbled groggily.

"I'm Clopin Troulliefou. I'm here to find my mother."

A soft, wavering voice wove through the chilly air. "Did you say 'Troulliefou'?"

"Yes." Suddenly very alert, he glanced around to see a woman shakily getting to her feet.

"Clopin?"

"Mom." Choking back a sob, he ran forward to embrace her. Her shaking arms wrapped clumsily around his waist as she cried into his shirt.

"My little baby boy," she whispered unsteadily between sobs. "Look at you. All grown up. Why, you are taller than I am." She reached up around his neck and pulled down, urging him to kneel. He complied, not protesting when she covered his face in wet, tear-stained kisses. (He, was, however, secretly glad that this was not happening in front of all of his brethren.)

But she pulled away all too soon. "Where is my Esmeralda?" she asked longingly.

Clopin winced. "Umm." He coughed. "About that…"

"No," Gudule whimpered. "No, no, no. Oh, Clopin, did you break your promise to me?"

"She's alive," Clopin explained quickly. "She's…she's not well."

"What's wrong with her?" Gudule asked anxiously.

Clopin opened his mouth to lie; then he caught his mother's pleading gaze. He couldn't do this to her; he couldn't! "She's pregnant…"

"Oh!" Gudule cried, interrupting him.

"The father is dead. She is not taking it well…"

"Take me to her!" Gudule interrupted him a second time, grabbing his shirt fiercely. "She needs someone to take care of her."

"Mom," Clopin winced, "I'm not sure you're ready to…"

"Now!" Gudule insisted. "She is sick! I need to be with her! Now! Do you have a horse?"

Actually, he had somebody else's horse, but he didn't feel the need to share that information…

*0*0*0*0*0*

It took them all day to get back to the Court of Miracles. Clopin was tired, the horse was tired, and Gudule wasn't young anymore. He wanted nothing more than to reunite his mother with Esmeralda so that he could go to his wagon and sleep. After being awake all night, he was exhausted.

Robotically, he walked to his sister's tent, pulling the flap open. Inside, it was empty. "Esmeralda?" she asked.

"We haven't seen her all day," one of his clansmen remarked.

"She woke up sometime late this morning, but she left immediately. Didn't tell anyone where she was going," another added.

"No," Clopin groaned. "No. No. No." He sank to the ground sobbing, only partially aware of his mother weeping at his side.

A/N: Bet you guys can guess where she went (:


	7. Chapter 7

Esmeralda awoke to find her blankets wrapped tightly around her, fingers gripping the fabric until her knuckles turned white. She must have grabbed them in her sleep. Moments ago, she had been clutching her husband's robes in her dream. She had covered his face in kisses before burying herself into his embrace, never wanting to leave.

Now, she wanted to go back to dreaming. The waking world was too lonely, too bleak. All she had left were these raw, emotional memories of her husband.

No. She had something more. She had the name plaque in Notre Dame cathedral. Claude had explained everything in the dream. Now she needed to see the name plaque for herself, to prove to herself that the ghost was real and not some figment of her imagination.

Esmeralda tossed aside her blankets and rummaged through a trunk of clothing. Passing over brilliantly colored fabrics, she finally selected a faded black dress, covering her head and shoulders with a ragged, dull green shawl. Today there would be no jewelry or bright colors; for once, she didn't want to draw attention to herself.

Today, she was some nondescript gypsy woman making her way through the streets of Paris. All she wanted was to find that name plaque without being bothered. If she kept her head down and her face mostly hidden, hopefully no one would recognize her as the late minister's wife.

She need not have worried. The streets of Paris were bustling with activity, people jostling and shoving each other and arguing and shouting. Es thought at first that a merchant had come to town and was unloading his wares. Boxes and chests were being carried through the streets and loaded onto wagons. Some of the lids were not shut; Es craned her head around and managed to get a glimpse of some of the contents. Fabric, silverware, glass bottles.

A rough shove caught her off guard; she almost fell to the cobblestone streets. "Move!" a man barked at her before turning to push another onlooker out of the way. Behind her, two men had shouldered a heavy bolt of cloth and were carrying it out to the wagon.

It unrolled slightly when they laid it down, and Es caught a glimpse of the pattern of the weave.

No. It couldn't be.

"Out of the way," one of the men growled, shoving her back into the crowd. "I know it's pretty, but it's nothing _you_ will ever be able to afford."

She was too absorbed in her own thoughts to respond. She _recognized_ that tapestry; it had hung on the east wall of her husband's bedroom. _Their_ bedroom. And these people were taking it.

Ordinarily, she would have been angry. Now, her spirits just sunk a little lower and she turned away. She did not have the strength to be angry. All she wanted to do was curl up in the floor and cry.

But her need to know that the ghost was real was stronger than her desire to give up. She needed, needed to get to the cathedral to find his name plaque, proof that he hadn't left her. Her knees shook a little as she walked, and she had to stop and rest several times. She was tired; so, so tired.

She practically collapsed against the doors of Notre Dame, but the reassurance that she was so close to her destination pushed her to keep going. Latin chanting floated through the air from the very moment she opened the door. So beautiful; so, so beautiful. No wonder her husband spent so much time here; the beauty was balm on his tortured soul. She wished, not for the first time, that she spoke Latin so that she could understand the words.

He had offered to teach her.

But he had never had the chance. Claude had been brutally murdered before they could begin their new life together. He would never teach her Latin, never even get to hold their baby.

Esmeralda gulped, digging her knuckles into her closed eyes. She couldn't start bawling in the cathedral and make a scene. Not with everyone here. She needed to start looking for that plaque, now, before her eyes became too swollen and blurry for her to see. Trying to remember his directions, she tore through the cathedral, passing statues and stained-glass windows.

And there it was, hidden in a niche beneath a sculpture of a snake dangling from a tree branch. (Whoever chose the placement for that plaque clearly had a decided opinion of the Minister of Justice.)

The girl's exhaustion vanished in an instant, replaced by a fierce determination. The ghost was real. Tonight, she would go to sleep with this plaque under her pillow and dream of him. Maybe she would even ask him to give her Latin lessons. She dug under the plaque with her fingernails, attempting to pry it loose, but it only bent her nails. Undeterred, she grabbed a pin from her hair and pried between the metal and stone until the pin snapped.

A sturdier tool was clearly necessary. Glancing around, she caught sight of the long, thin metal pole used to reach up to light the candles. She dug it against the rectangular piece of metal, pushing with all of her weight. Concentrating fiercely, she angled it carefully against the stone, trying to deliver the most force possible.

She didn't notice the people watching her until hands roughly grabbed her shoulders. "Thief!" a voice shouted in her ear. "You should be ashamed of yourself, stealing from a church!"

To her credit, she recovered quickly, jabbing behind her with the pole. She heard a grunt and felt it connect with a body, but more people hemmed in around her and someone twisted the pole from her grip.

"Leave me alone!" she protested. "I'm not stealing anything! That plaque belonged to my husband!"

"No it didn't," a voice snarled. "No gypsy man has a plaque in here."

She opened her mouth to correct him, but closed it before making a sound. She remembered the men emptying the Palace of Justice. Somebody had claimed the late minister's estate, and whoever it was clearly didn't care that he had a wife.

The exhaustion returned in a dizzying rush. Esmeralda crumpled to the floor, her heavy lidded eyes closing as arms carried her away.


	8. Chapter 8

Claude could have spent _hours_ describing everything he liked about his wife's physique (and even longer if he was allowed to include 18+ content), but he never doubted that the particular feature that ultimately sent him over the edge was her hair.

It all started when he had trapped her inside Notre Dame. Pride still smarting from having his canopy toppled on his head, he felt the need to put her in her place before dramatically exiting the cathedral. He had only intended to twist her arm backwards until she broke down and sobbed for mercy.

Mere coincidence resulted in his face getting shoved into her hair.

Claude was completely unprepared for the overwhelming wave of female pheromones that completely flooded his senses. His knees almost buckled as he instinctively gripped her harder for support. Which was a serious mistake, as he weighed more than she did and almost sent them both toppling to the floor.

The moment they regained their balance, he buried his face deep into her hair, inhaling deeply of that powerful drug that had already made him addicted after his first hit. The Minister of Justice was so high that he let Esmeralda elbow her way out of his grasp without attempting to grab her again.

It was then that Claude realized that he would either have to turn Es, or destroy her. He couldn't let her go, not when she had this level of power over him. And although he was delighted to get to know every last inch of her intoxicating person, he never became less fascinated with her voluminous cascading waves of ebony hair.

Unsurprisingly, Claude happily took the opportunity to bury his face in her hair as soon as he realized that they could communicate through her dreaming. She was only too happy to snuggle up in his lap, relishing his comforting warmth.

He held her, and held her, and held her, until he felt himself fade back into a spirit as she awoke. She had immediately headed to Notre Dame in search of the name plaque. He, on the other hand, found himself being pulled through the city to yet another location.

After phasing right through five walls, seven pedestrians, and a dog, he found himself roaming his guards' stables. The horses were absent—taken, no doubt—leaving behind a disgusting mess of manure and moldy straw. Claude was very grateful to not have a functioning nose. His minions were such slobs, which was why he had hired Phoebus to whip everybody into shape.

Which had not worked so well, but that was beside the point.

Claude was pulled through another locked door, where he was brought face-to-face with his own gigantic horse. The animal was unsettled, stomping its hooves on the floor, whinnying like a lost foal. Its food and water troughs were empty.

Claude knew why. Since he had procured Snowball, the Minister of Justice had kept his horse in a separate, secure stall and only he had the key. Nobody was allowed inside without the minister's supervision. Too many people would happily slice the horse's tendons out of pure spite for the mister. They knew how much he cared for the horse.

But now that the minister was dead, the horse hadn't seen him—or any human being, for that matter—for over 24 hours. No wonder Snowball was anxious. Snowball was remembering his master and wondering where the Minister had gone.

_Which is why I'm here in this stable. My horse is remembering me._ Claude brooded as he floated aimlessly through the empty space. How much time had passed since Snowball had last eaten? It appeared that the city had chosen to leave the horse locked up to starve.

"No," Claude growled. "No no no no NO!" He felt like a little boy throwing a tantrum, pounding nonexistent fists against the ground. "It's not fair!"

And right at that moment, a pitchfork flew through the air and embedded itself into the wall directly behind where Claude was hovering. "You think your situation isn't fair?" an angry voice shrieked. "I'll tell you what's not fair!"

"Phoebus?" Claude deliberately kept his tone aloof and disinterested, hoping to impress upon Blondie that he was too unimportant for the minister to actually care.

"Being sentenced to roam the earth for twenty years as a ghost! _Twenty years!_ And I can't even get drunk to make things go faster! And it's ALL YOUR FAULT!"

"How on earth is it my fault that ghosts can't consume alcohol?" Claude asked pointedly.

"Because you stabbed me! See, I wasn't supposed to die for twenty years. My room in the afterlife wasn't ready, because I wasn't supposed to be dead yet! So now I have to wait as a stupid ghost for 20 years for a room in Heaven to open up!" Phoebus snapped.

"So _you_ have a room that will be ready for you eventually," Claude pondered. "Is it possible that if I cause you to misbehave and lose your room in Paradise that I could get the room instead?"

"Not with that attitude." Both ghosts were spun around to face a young man holding a scroll and quill pen.

"Hello, Angel Clark," Phoebus greeted the man. "I assure you, I have behaved myself very well. Well, at least I behaved better than this guy did."

"Your name is _Clark_?" Claude asked.

"That's 'Angel Clark' to you," Clark responded, scratching his quill pen against the scroll.

"My apologies, Angel Clark," Claude replied. "Also, I really should not have insinuated that I wanted to steal Phoebus' room in Paradise. I really need to stop thinking like a politician."

Phoebus snorted, to which Claude responded, "You really aren't important enough to interest me."

Scritch, scratch, scribble. Clark took notes on their behavior.

"He's going to give us a debriefing," Phoebus explained. "He'll us now we have been doing. I'm interested to see your progress report."


	9. Chapter 9

*****Author's note: Thanks to Galatea1685 for your interest in my writing. Support from readers is my motivation to continue to write.**

"Quasimodo. Can you hear me?"

The red-haired boy turned around quickly at the familiar voice. "Master?"

"Quasimodo, I need your help."

"Anything, Master," he replied in a well-rehearsed tone. Out of necessity, he had perfected the art of hiding any tiredness or resentment in his tone, regardless of how he felt. Master tolerated nothing less than prompt and blind obedience.

Then, reality sunk in. "Wait, aren't you dead? Am…am I _dreaming_ about you bossing me around? Maybe I should pinch myself."

"No!" Claude shouted quickly. "Don't you d—I mean please!" Claude was still having a difficult time adjusting to the fact that he couldn't threaten anyone anymore. Yet another thing he did not like about being dead. Having a palace full of soldiers had been very useful.

"This is a weird dream," Quasimodo said. "You never say 'please'. I think I ate some bad food last night and now it's affecting me."

"Being dead has been quite the adjustment," Claude admitted readily. "I'm not good at it," he heard himself add. "YET!" he corrected himself hastily. Ugh, he hated the whole business of blurting out whatever was on his mind. He really needed to learn how to control that. The afterlife was so embarrassing.

"I like your new personality, Master," Quasi added generously, smiling brightly. "You are not so scary now."

Ugh. This conversation just kept getting worse. Better get it finished with as quickly as possible. "Esmeralda is in trouble!" he blurted out.

"WHAT?" Quasimodo shouted.

Suddenly, Claude's entire perspective shifted. It was like putting a jar over a candle: first the flame is burning, then it is gone. He faded rapidly into the shadows, realizing the problem immediately: Quasi had shouted in his sleep and woken himself up.

Quasi was now staring, glassy eyed, around the darkened room. "I must have been dreaming," he said to no one. "I wonder if it's about time to wake up yet?" He sat up.

Crap, crap, crap. This was not going well at all. First he had been given the news about E's imprisonment from the angel, and now Quasi was awake and they couldn't talk.

Could he get Quasi back to sleep? It was worth a try. Remembering the earlier pitchfork incident, Claude reached out to the blankets to try to smooth them down. If idiot blonde could interact with the physical world, then genius evil mastermind could surely learn.

But it wasn't simple. Claude's initial mistake was to try to reach to the blankets as if he had hands, which he didn't. Not being one to give up easily (or at all), he tried to pull his entire consciousness towards the blanket itself, feeling for its four corners, the raveled stitching around the edges, the little tear towards the top where it had caught on a nail at one point…

Suddenly he wondered why he appeared to be laying flat on the floor. Trying to look to one side gave him a strange feeling of sliding across the floor, but tangling around some large object…

When suddenly it dawned on him. He had successfully possessed the blanket.

He could feel Quasi trying to push the blankets off to get up. Claude gently pushed back. Quasi seemed to protest a little at first, but soon gave up and crumpled back to the floor. "Blankets…so…heavy…" he murmured sleepily.

Minutes later, Quasi had fallen back asleep. Claude continued his request.

"Esmeralda is being held in the dungeons of the Palace of Justice. You'll need the keys. I kept them in the middle drawer of—oh." Claude remembered that the entire place had been ransacked. "Actually, I have no idea where the keys are."

"What?" Quasi said, stirring in his sleep.

"Can you pick a lock?"

"Whaaaaaaaa…" Quasi rolled over, rubbed his eyes, and got up. "Was I dreaming? Something about…Master asking me if I could pick locks…that makes no sense." He yawned.

"DO SOMETHING, YOU IGNORANT DOLT!" the ghost shouted. Of course, no one heard him.

"Wait…is Esmeralda in trouble?" Quasi's huge hands clenched into fists. "I'M COMING TO RESCUE YOU!" he shouted, barreling down the belltower staircase.

Thankfully, most of Paris was asleep when the pajama-clad deformed boy was running through the streets. Otherwise, he would have definitely attracted unwanted attention. But Claude had scarcely given this a second thought. As he had floated through the cathedral, he had realized that there was another task to finish…

*0*0*0*0*0*

Quasimodo did not need any key; he ripped the prison door from its hinges. His next move was to smash into the stables and get Snowball to carry them back to the Court of Miracles. Clopin and Gudule Troulliefou were sobbing in relief; Es was too weak to show much emotion. Gudule managed to convince her to drink some soup, after which she insisted that she needed to sleep and didn't allow her mother to start peppering her with questions.

She knew that the conversation would quickly turn towards her baby, and she still had no idea how to tactfully explain the identity of the child's father. Gudule probably would not be too excited to learn that he was the same man who had extorted her for free labor for nearly 20 years.

For that matter, it bothered Esmeralda herself. She hadn't known about the labor camps when she married him. All she knew was that the Minister of Justice was an intelligent man who had escaped from an abusive childhood, and risen to aristocracy through his own determination and cunning. He had barricaded himself, put up walls within his mind and heart to protect him from the pain he had known all too well.

His true personality had been so different from the cold, hard mask he wore in public. The city may have known him as a cruel man, but they never watched him combing his wife's hair and deliberately pulling it down over her face to make her laugh. The city didn't see him massaging her delicate little feet. They never got to sit up in the belltower when he read to Quasimodo. (Their loss. His voice was amazing. Somehow, he never got through more than a few paragraphs without Es crawling over to curl up in his lap, listening to him softly drone on and on…)

Of _course_ she had loved him! But now that she had learned what he had done, she felt like some filthy traitor. It wasn't _fair_! Maybe she should have stayed with Phoebus. He wasn't such a bad person. She could have her perfect married life with a little house and a white picket fence with a gaggle of little blonde kiddos running around.

Es was sick and tired of the drama in her life. At least when she was asleep she didn't have to deal with it. Deliberately blocking out any thoughts, she pulled her blanket up to her neck and closed her eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

Having a full stomach helped Esmeralda fall asleep more easily. After a few hours, she began to dream vividly.

The Minister of Justice was not to her tent immediately; he was occupied with preparing something for her. Though it did not yet come easily, he was quickly learning how to possess objects. Perhaps being dead wasn't so bad after all.

But when he finally made it to her tent, she was less than enthusiastic. "I don't appreciate you hiding things from me!" she snapped. "You never told me about your slave labor camps!"

His first instinct was to defend himself. "Each and every one of them had been legally sentenced to community service. I still have detailed records of every single case. If you so desire, you are free to examine them. Third drawer from the left, bottom row, it's locked, the keys are…never mind, they were stolen. Have Quasimodo break the lock."

"It was extortion, and you know it!" she snarled. "I just got my mother back from the compound. Have you seen how tired she looks? Like she aged forty years since you locked her up!"

Oops. "I…I didn't know that one of the convicts was your mother. I would have released her, had you requested…"

"That isn't the point," she growled. "Each and every one of those prisoners was somebody's mother, or father, or sister, or brother, or son, or daughter. But did you care? No. All you could see was potential sources of free labor." Folding her arms, Es turned her back to her husband. "I should have stayed with Phoebus," she muttered bitterly. "Even if he drank too much, at least he never exploited the law to enslave anyone."

"Look, Es, I'm sorry. Really…truly…I'm sorry. I was wrong." He surprised himself by how easily he said those words, especially now that he could no longer tell lies. He'd experienced a genuine change of heart. "You were right. I have exploited many, many people. But this is the entire reason I was sent back as a ghost, to clean up all of the messes I made during my lifetime. I still have the records of the court cases; I know how to overturn a verdict. I'll see what I can do, ok? I'm learning how to interact with the physical world."

"I'm going to hold you to that," she responded, voice still hard.

"You know that I don't give up," he murmured.

When she turned back around to face him, a tired smile flitted across her face. "I know," she sighed softly.

"You deserved better than what I gave you during my lifetime." He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder; she allowed herself to be pulled into his embrace. "I promise that I will take full advantage of this opportunity to make it up to you."

"I would expect no less." Even though her words were still terse, her tone was softening.

"But of course, dear." Taking his fingertips and placing them on her forehead, he raked back to the crown of her head before tugging the remainder of the way through her long curls. "Which, I believe, includes giving you an _actual_ wedding night."

Esmeralda giggled. "Meaning I get an actual bed this time, as opposed to the top of the grand piano?"

"Now, now," he chided. "I don't recall you having _any_ objections to the piano."

"Well, it looked less uncomfortable than the floor," she retorted. "And you _clearly_ had neither the common sense nor the proprietary to bring me back to the Palace of Justice to your actual bed. Because that would have taken too long."

"I don't see what you're complaining about," he objected. "_I_ didn't have an issue with the floor being too uncomfortable, and I'm more than twice your age."

"No fair!" Esmeralda laughed. "You aren't the one with your back on the floor! You get it easy!"

"Easy?" he repeated. "I don't recall the FLOOR ever punching me in the jaw."

"I thought you _liked_ my methods of showering you with affection!" she protested in mock indignation. "But either way, it certainly didn't deter you at all."

"Nothing could ever deter me from you," he whispered huskily, burying his face in her voluminous hair. "Not the loss of my job, nor the anger of your brother, nor my desire to maintain my public image…"

"When you set your mind to anything, you become the most impossible man I've ever known." She laughed slightly as she reached behind her head to play with his hair.

"Impossible? The power of love is unstoppable!" he declared. "I would scour the depths of Hell for you, mine Eurydice. I would go to war for you, mine Helen of Troy. I would navigate the Labyrinth, blind the Cyclops, bear the weight of the sky on my shoulders, skin the Nemean lion…"

Esmeralda giggled. "You make creepy, obsessive stalking sound so romantic."

Claude squeezed her shoulders before continuing his poetic declaration of love. "I would behead Medusa, sneak past Argus, and make Phoebus clean out the Augean stables."

His wife broke into laughter. "Goodness, you can't even show off your knowledge of Greek mythology without hating on Golden Boy!"

"Speaking of Golden Boy," Claude added, "his family was planning a memorial service for him on the Notre Dame cathedral. I hadn't expected they would be willing to pay for something that extensive…"

"Maybe his extended family chipped in," Es wondered. "But I wasn't aware of any of this! I was too busy too busy hiding from King Louis in Germany!"

"And I'm very sorry for all of that," Claude apologized for what felt like the millionth time. "But yes, while you were away, I was helping to plan a memorial service for Phoebus after he fell out of the attic because he was drunk."

"I recall something different," Es interrupted. "You stabbed him."

"His death certificate says that he was drunk and fell out of the attic, and apparently landed on something sharp, because there was a wound. End of discussion. I wrote the eulogy around this being how he died," Claude said with finality.

"Must have been nice being able to approve death certificates," Es commented coolly.

"Ah, yes, it was. Makes me wonder what was written on mine. But I suppose it doesn't matter Anyway, I was supposed to deliver the eulogy at the captain's memorial service, but I don't think that's happening now." A faint smile hovered over his face.

"So who is going to read it? Quasi?" Es asked.

"I don't know. The cathedral decorations should be finished by now," he continued thinking out loud. Es giggled when a familiar smirk spread across his face. "Which gives me an idea. Would it be possible for you to come up to Quasi's old room tomorrow evening?"

"I'll speak to him tomorrow. He spent the night in the Court of Miracles, you know. I can catch him before he leaves. Maybe he'll take me with him when he rides back." Her shoulders suddenly dropped. "My mother will think I'm avoiding her…" She stiffened again. "Maybe I AM avoiding her. I don't want to have this conversation with her about…about our baby…that you're the same person who locked her up…she'll explode!"

"Give yourself a break," Claude said gently, stroking her hair. "You have been through so much. Wait and gather your thoughts before you talk to your mother." He let his hand slide down to her shoulder before lifting her chin so he could look directly into her eyes. "But before that…I brought you something. Here, feel." Placing his hand over the back of hers, he curled her fingers down into a fist.

A cold sensation caressed her fingertips. Es woke and brought her hand to her face to examine whatever was inside.

It was the name plaque from Notre Dame.

Blinking away a tear, she tucked the metal into her clothes and hurried out of her tent to wake Quasimodo.


	11. Chapter 11

****Author's note: Three chapters in one day, woohoo! At last I'm all caught up. **

The ghost concentrated carefully on the vase of flowers at the base of the statue in Notre Dame. Slowly, it rattled, before lifting from its base into the air. Keeping his focus steady, he guided it up the belltower stairs. Claude was very thankful for the countless hours he had spent in the cathedral; haunting the place came naturally to him now.

The ghost did not allow his concentration to break until he reached Quasimodo's old room and carefully placed the flowers in the floor with a decided spark of satisfaction. Taking control of an object and navigating an object up the stairs was no small feat, but he had managed. Now, he only had seventeen more vases to go—not counting the altar linens.

_Just think of the expression on Esmeralda's face when she sees all of this. _Resolutely, he returned to his extensive task.

*0*0*0*0*0*0*0*0*

Lifting her candle, Esmeralda glanced around in surprise at the room. Usually it was rather bare, but tonight the floor was sprinkled with flowers and flower petals. A small pile of bare flower stems lay off in a corner. In the middle of the floor lay a bed—actually, two beds, but pushed closely enough together to serve as a single mattress.

"Goodnight," Quasi whispered, slipping out of his old bedroom before closing the door behind him. Es heard the key turn in the lock. She was very grateful that Quasi had carried her up the tall spiral staircase; as her baby grew, the additional weight put more strain on her legs and feet, and she tired more quickly than before. (Quasimodo had let her ride with him back to Notre Dame. They had left before anyone else was awake, allowing Es to dodge an interrogation from her mother. Es had hidden in a side chapel until night fell.)

She curled up on the bed, burrowing down under the soft sheets. Altar linens, she guessed; Claude had been up to no good. She smiled at the thought, excited for where this next dream would take her…

Esmeralda sneezed and opened her eyes to see flower petals floating down upon her face. "Claude?" she giggled.

"Hello, dear." He knelt beside the bed and bent over her. "Did I do well?"

She laughed. "You raided the altar linens _and_ stole all of the statues' flowers to rip them up for petals. I do believe you've outdone yourself!"

"I would have taken the candles too…"

"Oh, no, buster." Es sat up in bed and poked him on the nose. "No open flame for you."

"That's what my probation angel said, too," Claude admitted sheepishly. "He said that Notre Dame isn't supposed to burn down for a few more centuries and we couldn't risk it…"

"So it _will_ burn?"

"One day, everything that is mortal will be turned to ash…it makes little difference. But for now…"

He sat on the bed, pulling her into his lap. Her middle was so large that she had to turn backwards to him just to fit on his lap.

Gently, he slid his fingers through her hair, bringing them to rest on a place behind her ear where he had learned she was especially receptive to his touches. Coaxing her head to tilt backwards, he bent over her, his lips brushing across the delicate, feminine bridge of her nose before coming to rest on her mouth.

His lips plied at her own, his tongue tip gently sweeping her full, rounded lower lip into his mouth. He rolled her lip between his teeth, suckling with a shameless self-indulgence. With a soft whimper, she pulled back closer to him, rubbing her backside against his lap. Jittery, excited hands dropped from her face to rest on her gently rocking hips as they kissed.

And kissed…and kissed…and kissed.

Blood boiling in his veins, Claude gripped his wife more tightly. Her squirming was driving him to the brink of insanity, yet he forcibly reined himself back, unwilling to rush matters and spoil the beauty of the moment. _Hunger is the best sauce, _he repeated to himself as he dipped his tongue yearningly into her hot mouth.

And oh, how her response matched his ardor, sucking his tongue with the total oblivion of a happily nursing infant.

It was actually she who pulled away first, to reach for his clothing. Readily he complied, guiding her hands as they lifted his robes over his head to fling the fabric into an untidy heap in the floor. She went for the lacings of his undershirt, her delicate fingertips tingling against his sternum as she worked the clothing open.

He guided her head to rest against his bare chest; she nestled into the crook of his neck. She was leaning sideways against him, where that he could easily reach the laces of her corset.

Unlike many women, Esmeralda had never taken to wearing corsets that were three sizes too small; she was a practical girl who valued the ability to breathe and move about more than she desired an unrealistic waist size. But as her pregnancy progressed, she had forsaken the confining whalebones entirely and opted for a gentler stitched fabric. The intent was not to produce an hourglass figure, only to provide support for her breasts.

Which Claude agreed that she needed, as her breasts had grown some during her pregnancy. (Claude was very detail-oriented and had always prided himself on his excellent memory. Nothing ever escaped his notice.) His fingers slid down her bare back, gently rising and falling as they glided down the ridges of her spine.

"Cold?" he asked gently when he felt her shiver.

"Not for long," she murmured, pressing herself closer to him.

He guided her to lay down, turning her onto her stomach. She grabbed two of the pillows, tucking them under her chest for support.

He slid another pillow under her knees. "Is that enough cushion?" he asked. "We don't want to squish the baby."

Giggling with her face buried in a pillow, she responded, "I'll let you know if I need more pillows."

In a single move he swept her bushy hair over her shoulder, exposing her slender neck. He nuzzled her satin skin before biting down right between her shoulderblades. Answering her ensuing gasp with a murmur of his own, his lips crept up her neck a few centimeters before biting into her again.

"Claude…" she moaned brokenly, clutching desperately at the pillows.

"Again," he growled, biting down harder.

"_Claude…" _

**A/N** Yes, I Googled "how to have sex during pregnancy". With my browser filter on, of course. I don't want my eyes to still be burning next week. Hahahaha. But I still think I got enough information to write a more realistic scene. Of course I am always willing to hear your feedback (:

Now, to write the memorial service scene. Es never had the opportunity to meet the captain's family, we'll see how this turns out… *grins, rolls up sleeves, and goes back to typing*


	12. Chapter 12

Clopin Troullifeou's footfalls blended into the sounds of the street, almost enough that he could ignore the abrasive scratch of his worn shoes against the dusty pavement.

Almost.

The sound grated against his eardrums like sandpaper, reminding him over and over that he really, really needed to invest in some better footwear. Maybe his next puppet show would attract a big enough audience that he could—

"Move, idiot!" Clopin felt himself shoved into another human being, who quickly pushed him away, causing the King of the Gypsies to lose his balance and fall butt-first onto the side of the dusty road. Before he could even stand back up, a massive red-and-gold painted carriage rumbled down the road, right where he had been standing seconds prior.

Daydreams of new shoes vanished like a puff of steam. "Who the heck is THAT?" he exclaimed. "Never seen such a gaudy ride before…"

Wandering thoughts had already diverted to plans of pickpocketing the strangers when his self-dialogue was interrupted yet again. "Somebody arriving for the memorial service, I suppose," one bystander speculated.

"What memorial service?" Clopin turned to ask.

"Where have you been, dummy?" the man returned skeptically.

Clopin opened his mouth to say "Exile in Germany", only to find out that the man's question was purely rhetorical. "It's for Phoebus. The late Captain of the Guard."

"Guess he had some friends in high places," another voice mused. "Who on earth has that kind of money?"

"Minister Frollo probably did. But I can't imagine him owning something so _gaudy_."

The mention of the late Minister caused several ears to prick up. A very dirty, disheveled man with a jug of cheap alcohol pushed his way towards the latest speaker. "Hey, you forgot, every time we say something dumb about old Bat Face, we all take a drink of _this_."

Another man in a torn blue shirt stepped in front of the dirty man with the jug. "No, not yet. What Jacques said wasn't dumb enough. Here, I'll show you. Minister Frollo…had servants carry him around on a litter because he got too old to walk!" This was greeted with harsh guffaws of drunk laughter.

Under any other circumstance, Clopin would have been more than happy to have joined in. However, the sight of the carriage and the knowledge of the memorial service had presented to him a solution to a problem which had dogged his every movement for the past six months. In his excitement, he ran all of the way back to the Court.

Clopin was still catching his breath as his clan gathered around for the emergency meeting he had just called. Hurriedly he replayed the script in his head, making sure that he had the story straight.

"Today, I will be attending my brother-in-law's memorial service," he began. "As most of you probably do not know, Esmeralda was married to the former Captain of the Guard…"

Taking a breath to steady himself, Clopin took reassurance from the nods and shrugs he had expected to see. At least, the beginning of his yarn was believable, enough people had seen Phoebus hanging around his sister.

"And they were expecting a child…" Clopin steeled himself for the ensuing curious looks, hoping them to be expressions of interest rather than incredulity. Somewhere in the back, a voice piped up, "Well, I _thought_ she was gaining weight."

Clopin continued. "They deliberately tried not to draw attention to this fact. Phoebus had some very stuck-up aristocratic relatives who did not approve of their relationship. The relatives have recently arrived in _fine_ style…" Again, the clan was nodding. Some of them must have seen the carriage.

_Almost there. Almost there. _"I do not expect all of you to come with me, and neither does his family. In fact, they most likely prefer that you do _not_ attend. However, I see it as my duty to be there."

Clopin allowed himself to exhale in relief, but his breath froze halfway out when Gudule suddenly shouted out "I'm coming with you!"

Oops, he hadn't planned on that. Well, maybe it wouldn't be a problem after all… "That's great, Mom," he squeaked. Clearing his throat, he continued, "But please don't draw too much attention to yourself. The captain's family is…well…"

"Rich and snotty and bigoted," Gudule finished for him.

"Yes."

"But I can imagine Phoebus was different. I believe I saw him visit the compound a few times to deliver Frollo's instructions to us…blonde, tall, stocky guy with facial hair, right?" she checked.

"Right." Clopin's anxiety level dropped a notch. She appeared to be buying his story.

"He wasn't a bad guy. Not mean, like some of the other guards…" she trailed off.

"Let's get going so we won't be late." Clopin didn't want to hang around too long, in case his brethren decided to start asking questions. He mostly ignored his mother's chatter as he helped her up onto the donkey's back and they started the long ride, his mind was blank with relief…

And Esmeralda owed him a very, very big favor after how nicely he'd smoothed over the massive mess she had made for herself.


	13. Chapter 13

Gripping the handle, Clopin yanked open the cathedral door and held it for his mother. "Remember to be inconspicuous," he whispered as she walked past. Had his mother not insisted on coming to the service, Clopin would have simply made himself scarce all day and let his family _believe_ he was attending the memorial. But turning her down would have only made Gudule suspicious. Sighing quietly, Clopin followed his mother into the sanctuary. Why did telling lies have to be so bloody _complicated?_ Well, maybe the family wouldn't notice the two of them if they kept quiet.

Clopin deliberately guided his mother to a pew over in a dark corner. Well ahead of him, a family of blondes sat up in the center of the front row. _That must be the relatives._ Thankfully, all of them were looking directly forward.

Two knotty, arthritic fingers jabbed him in the ribs so suddenly he nearly broke his silence. "Where's Esmeralda?" Gudule asked.

"I don't know," Clopin replied immediately. _Oops_. "Maybe…uh…" he blurted out the first words that came to mind "…maybe she fell down and scraped her knee or something."

Pathetic. Absolutely and inexcusably pathetic. Clopin winced at his stupid alibi.

"Maybe she's already here and she's sitting somewhere else." Grabbing the back of the pew in front of them for support, Gudule pulled herself to her feet. "I'll look."

"No, Mom." Keeping his frustrated voice at whisper level was not easy. "Don't draw attention to us. You can look from where you are sitting."

"My eyes aren't that good—"

"MOM," Clopin whispered loudly. Ugh. Not going well. How to calm her before the family turned around? "Mom…Actually, I don't think Es is coming today. She wasn't feeling well. Um… er… ah… pregnancy stuff. You know."

"Oh dear," Gudule sighed. "How terrible that she feels so bad that she's missing her own husband's memorial service!"

"Yes, too bad," Clopin bobbed his head too eagerly in agreement.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier that she wasn't coming because she was sick?"

_Because I was apparently too stupid to think that far ahead._ "Um…well…she…um…left before we did. She wanted to, yeah, she wanted to give herself more time to travel because she didn't feel well. But now as late as it is, I don't think she'll show up at all."

"Oh, too bad," Gudule sighed a little too loudly. Clopin shushed her and silently begged that she wouldn't ask any more questions. Closing his eyes, he rested his head on the pew ahead of them, hoping that his pounding headache would ease up. _Please, dear God, if you're even listening, please don't let the family hear us! I promise that I'll never, ever, tell a lie EVER again! _

Clopin wasn't sure how many minutes passed before his mother piped up again, but his stomach lurched all the same. "Who's that in the back? Is that…oh, it is! Esmeralda! Over here!"

Clopin turned around to see what poor stranger that his mother's failing eyes had mistaken for his sister, but his own eyes grew wide in shock when he recognized the form.

"_Esmeralda?"_ he hissed as loudly as he dared.

She barely shot him a glance. "Gotta pee!" she hissed over her shoulder.

His brain was still trying to figure out what his sister was up to when she returned to the door.

"Over here!" Gudule waved her arms wildly. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you! Are you alright? Goodness, you look awful! Like you just rolled out of bed! Why, is that a robe?"

"Yes," Esmeralda replied, a bit confused. Protectively she tucked the bathrobe a bit tighter around herself, but not before Clopin caught a glance of her very gauzy, lacey pajamas. _What in the world…? _

"Why are you attending the captain's memorial service in your pajamas?" Gudule asked.

Very quickly, Clopin shot Es a stern glance, warning her that she needed to play along. "Like I told you, Es wasn't feeling well," Clopin repeated to his mother. "Her pajamas were comfortable."

"I'm so happy you were able to come," Gudule chattered happily.

"But why are _you_ here?" Esmeralda asked, confused.

"We wanted to come to your husband's memorial service. To support you." Clopin spoke before his mother had a chance to say anything. He repeated the warning stare.

"Oh…okay. Well then…I'm glad you made it!" she added. Clopin visibly sighed in relief. Es hadn't blown his cover.

The three of them sat in the pew as Quasimodo walked to the altar, speech in hand. Laying his notes on the table, he began: "Dear friends, we have as…as…mmm…"Even from a distance, Clopin could tell that the boy was pointing to the long word with his finger, trying to sound it out. "Assembled," Quasi decided.

"Assembled here today in rem…meb...eber…remember…remembrance of our late and dear friend, Captain Puhoo…uhh…err…Pehobe…uhh…" Quasi's whole body wilted in defeat. "I'm so sorry! Master was supposed to do this!" Big tears rolled down both of his cheeks.

"Who is that?" Gudule asked, pointing to Quasi. "He looks funny."

"He's our bellringer," Es clarified. "Yes, he looks different. He's also one of the sweetest people I know."

One of the family up front—a tall man, his blonde hair shot through with white—stood and walked to the altar. Addressing Quasimodo, the man said, "Someone else was supposed to read this, yes? You got the job at the last minute and had no time to prepare, did you."

Quasi nodded. "I'm so sorry!" he squeaked. "Master had it but…but…"

"I'll take over for you." As a relieved Quasimodo sat down, the blonde man picked up the papers and began to read. "Dear friends, we have assembled here today in remembrance of our late and dear friend, Captain Phoebus. A plain and simple man, his three greatest desires were beer, beer, and beer." The tall man scowled. "What the heck…Who wrote this?"

"My Master did," Quasi piped up helpfully. "Master liked big words, but they confuse me."

"I see." The older blonde man raised the paper again to his face. "Phoebus surprised me with his success, as I could always count on him to do the right thing after he had tried everything else. After every single conversation we shared, I left feeling exceptionally intelligent."

Esmeralda giggled too close to her brother's ear. "Shh!" he hissed. "You shouldn't be giggling at your husband's funeral!"

"But the eulogy…it's so funny!" Esmeralda gasped, sides heaving. "Oh, Claude, you're a mess!"

"Do what?" her brother interrupted her laughter.

"Dom Frollo wrote the thing," she squeaked. "He's so _witty_."

"And very unkind!" Clopin elbowed his sister meaningfully. "Wasn't it so unfortunate that Phoebus got sent to work for that awful man?"

His intended cue backfired. "_Stop_ dissing Minister Frollo!" she snapped at him.

Clopin panicked. "Keep your voice—"

"Who's that in the back?" one of the blonde family interrupted, turning around.

"No," Clopin whimpered. "No." The gypsy hung his head in defeat as the captain's family left the pew to approach him.

Clopin dared a glance at the blonde family's faces. None of them looked very friendly.

"I'm terribly sorry for disturbing you," Clopin squeaked.

"As you should be!" The tall white-and-blonde haired man—Phoebus' father, Clopin guessed—growled back at him. "Why are you here?"

"To pay my respects, sir." Clopin's voice remained an embarrassing squeak.

"We're the in-laws," Gudule explained helpfully. "This is his wife Esmeralda and her brother Clopin. I'm their mother."

"Do _what_? His _wife_?" With an angry stop of the hard sole of her boots, a blonde young woman stepped forward. She was leading a toddler by the hand.

Never in her life was Gudule able to take a cue to shut up. "You must be the captain's sister," she said.

"Mom," Clopin interrupted hastily, "don't…"

The blonde woman's angry voice completely drowned out Clopin's hurried warning. "I'm his wife of the past three years! Do you mean to tell me…"

Eyes wide, Clopin chewed his bottom lip. Gesturing with a sweaty, clammy hand between the two women, he squeaked out: "Es? Did you know about this?"

"No," Esmeralda growled, hands clenching. "You mean to tell me that Phoebus had a wife back home? And he never told me?"

The young woman broke into sobs. One of the other family members wrapped an arm around her and patted her soothingly on the head. "There, there, Fleur darling, we tried to warn you. These soldiers, they are _all_ like that. Got a wife in every city, they do."

"It's not _fair_!" Pouting, Fleur shoved away her family member. Her puffy, red eyes sullenly scanned over the three gypsies before stopping on Esmeralda. "Wait…are you _pregnant_?"

Es opened her mouth but had no chance to speak before Fleur's nails scratched her across the face. Es responded with a slap of her own. Seconds later the two women were screaming in the floor. Esmeralda quickly dominated the spoiled aristocratic girl, pounding her fists so angrily that she snapped a whalebone in Fleur's corset. "I'll…teach…you…to…attack…me…in…a…church!" Esmeralda snarled.

"Help me!" Fleur wailed.

This situation was deteriorating more rapidly than Clopin had ever dreamed possible. "Es, I suggest that you lay off…"

"Leemealone!" Es snarled without giving him so much as a look.

"No, Es, I'm serious. Someone is going to go find the police…"

*0*0*0*0*

Several minutes later, four handcuffed people were shoved roughly into a holding cell and the door was locked behind them.

"You will pay for this corset you broke," Fleur pouted without looking as Es as she fingered an exposed broken whalebone.

"I'm dreadfully sorry I broke it. I had no idea how badly you needed that corset to cure your pitiful lack of a waist," Es replied coolly, eyeing the aristocrat up and down.

Fleur angrily raised her manacled hands to strike, but Clopin stepped between the two women. "Stop it," he pleaded. "Both of you, just please stop fighting."

"It's all _her_ fault," Fleur pouted. "She's been sleeping with _my_ husband. I saw him first."

"I never slept with Phoebus!" Es snapped back. "Never got the chance. My other suitor stabbed him."

"What?" Gudule interrupted, raising her shackled hands. "What other suitor?"

"Our late minister of justice," she answered simply. "Dom Claude Frollo."


End file.
